Timeless Mystery
by NatashaNiracval
Summary: Hermione receives a strange note and a special TimeTurner from Professor Dumbledore. She goes back in time, intending to spy on Tom Riddle, but encounters surprising possibilities. HGTR, with a little bit of a twist
1. Dumbledore's Parting Request

**Author's Note**

This idea popped into my head while I was taking a shower and I just had to write it. I have the ending already planned out, and I very much like it.

So, without further ado:

**Dumbledore's Parting Request **

_Dear Hermione, _

_A while ago, a very bright witch gave me this Time-Turner. She told me that unlike ordinary versions, it was not meant to turn back the hours, or even the days. It was meant to turn the hours, or even the days, but the years and centuries. I think she would have liked you to have it. _

_Please, turn back to 47 years ago. It might be very important. _

_Albus Dumbledore _

Hermione looked at the note. She had found it on her seventeenth birthday on her dresser. But that was impossible – Dumbledore was dead! Yet she recognized his handwriting from the note on the invisibility cloak. She simply could not put it out of her mind.

She had already read it five times. It wasn't going to get any clearer. So, with a sigh, she did the only logical thing. She decided to follow his instructions, but not without precautions. _It might be very important_, he had said.

For a long time, she had been angry. Angry at leaving Hogwarts, at the Order's collapse, angry at not being able to do anything except help Harry train for his destiny. Now, she could do something. _It might be very important._ If it was, she could not ignore the note.

One thing bothered her. She had been working on just such a project – a long-range Time-Turner, a tool to help her find the Horcruxes. As a third-year student, Hermione Granger had looked at the device from every angle, taking precise notes, looking at the spells. Though it was very difficult for a young witch to comprehend, she had written everything down. Now, four years later, from those notes the bright girl had found she was able to design a plan for such an altered device. There were two problems with her plan:

An ordinary Time-Turner never did bring a person back, because after a few hours the time was right. Hermione would not be able to wait for years.

Even if she solved that little problem, how would she build it? The ingredients were incredibly rare, the spells long and difficult, and the stars were not in the right configuration.

So it was with apprehension and curiosity that Hermione opened the brown paper package. Beneath the plain wrapping was another layer, of almost transparent white paper, and she caught a glint of gold. Almost feverishly, but mindful not to tough the device, she ripped this layer off, and saw, gleaming in the sun, a little golden hoop, etched with runes, runes she knew, had researched, worked on. The small hourglass that sat in this hoop was filled with a dark green, viscous liquid. Dragon's blood. It was less of an hourglass and more a water-clock, for it had several chambers. Five, to be specific. So far, everything was as she had expected. She looked at the long, thin golden chain from which it hung and saw, where it was attached to the hoop, a star ruby in a ring of diamonds. The knob.

She levitated it off the paper and, holding it there, thought of the necessary incantation. "Formulae Revelatio!" she whispered, pointing her wand to the hourglass. She gasped as she caught sight of the multi-colored magic encircling this object, pulsing softly. She gave a twitch of her wand, and a long, golden strand which wound around the hoop gave off a tendril which extended till it touched the end of her wand.

Spells of protection, of change, of time, all the spells she knew had been necessary, all the spells she had prescribed, she identified them all. She had not anticipated how beautiful it would be, how like a work of art the intricate weaving of magic was. Finally she found herself at the last spell, a small green glow on the side of the Time-Turner. When identified, it turned out to be a cancellation spell, one which deadened magic. The simplicity of it surprised her. How could she not have thought of it? This was the way to go "back to the future" – simply to cancel the original spell! Satisfied that the item was what it seemed to be, and that all the spells on it were supposed to be there, she let the levitation spell falter and caught it in her hand.

Her heart was beating, her breath heavy, as she put down the fragile device. _It can't be. How could he know? Or that other witch he mentioned? This is ridiculous. I'm going to wake up any minute now and find out this is just a dream._ She paced to her window and leaned on the sill, looking at the busy London street below. Bustling crowds hurried on the dirty sidewalks, cars honked at each other, and people came in and out of the record store just across the street. She smiled as her eyes landed on the dingy, dirty little pub next door, the Leaky Cauldron. This apartment had proven very useful for Ron, Harry and her, and once again she silently thanked Dumbledore for bequeathing it to them.

She had a hard time understanding how life could go on when Voldermort was back, when Dumbledore was dead, and a dream of hers had materialized on her bedside table. Well, it didn't matter to them. They didn't know, but lived out their lives in blissful ignorance, while she, Harry, and Ron had to make heavy decisions, feeling as though the fate of the world was resting on their young shoulders.

Which, unfortunately for them, it was.

Hermione walked away from the window and picked up the golden pendant. It ought to work – everything was just as she had designed it. As she slipped the chain around her neck, her finger caught on something on the edge of the hoop and she realized that it was not just as she had designed it. A small groove ran along the edge, one which seemed to have a band of silver at the bottom. A tiny rod came out of this groove, looking for all the world like a Muggle light switch. She didn't know what it was, but assumed it was where the cancellation spell was anchored, a way to get back to her own time. _All right,_ she thought. _Let's do this. _

Standing in the sun, looking at the cars below her, she took the Time-Turner in her hand and nervously twisted the knob four times, before flipping the complicated hour glass over itself, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven times. Her head pounded, she felt as if her brain was throbbing, as though her eyes were pressing against their sockets. The world moved back in time, but far too quickly for her to see movement. Instead, she saw the furniture change, caught glimpses of her own cheery bedroom, a child's crib, a sofa draped in red velvet, a black bookcase and leather armchairs. The spinning change stopped, her headache, relented, and she let out a breath she had not realized she was holding. She was there.

O-o-o-O-o-o-O

**Author's Note:**Hi! This is Natasha, and I hope you enjoy this first chapter. Please read and review, I need constructive criticism. I think my description of the Time-Turner was clumsy, if anyone can help me with that I'd appreciate it.

I'd also love a beta reader.

I promise, I will return any reviews!


	2. Solving a Riddle

**Author's Note:**

I just realized that the thought of Hermione going back to the Tom Riddle era isn't exactly original. I mean, it was my idea, I didn't copy it off anyone... Still, I think the twist I put in is just my own. I know how the ending will go.

Anyway, here is Chapter II.

2

Solving a Riddle

Hermione found herself in what seemed to be a study, with dark wood bookcases lining the walls and some leather armchairs sitting near them. A beautiful, lacquered desk and a matching chair stood just below the window, covered in notes and drawing. Resisting the need to look at them, Hermione wondered whose house this was – probably Dumbledore's, she assumed. But why would she want her to come back to speak to his young self?

She heard voices coming from the laboratory, the only room that had still been furnished when Ron, Harry, and she had moved in. The first to speak was a man's voice, sweet and reassuring, a voice she found herself liking very much.

"Anton," it said, that name ringing a dusty bell somewhere in the recesses of her memory, "I think this bit of our research is pointless, we'll have to invent one."

"I'm sorry, Tom, but you know I'm not very good at potion brewing, you'll have to do it yourself."

Hermione did not listen to the rest of the conversation as she put together what she had just heard. _This is Voldermort's apartment._ She couldn't get the thought out of her head, though it might not necessarily be so. There were other Toms. _Other Toms 47 years ago that were doing research and might be very important?_ Then it was replaced by, _Why did Dumbledore think I should come here?_ She worked out the math in her head. World War II was over, Grindelwald was defeated, Voldermort – no, Tom Riddle still – was just out of Hogwarts, after about five years. He was working at Borgin and Burkes, and would for... She wasn't sure how much more.

Hold on, Dumbledore had said it was after the murder of a lady named Hepzibah Smith. That was in 1954, a bit more than 43 years ago – _no, four years from now._

Now she had that straightened out, Hermione started thinking up a cover, thinking despite the fear that trickled down like cold water from the top of her head. This was what she was good at, thinking. Thinking and remembering, not action, not fights. She had never been good at those.

This was the part she would play in the war, and she had to play it well.

Tiptoeing towards the door of the apartment, she hoped fervently she would not be heard. Her hand brushed against an empty potion bottle, which fell to the floor with a thundering crash and the tinkle of glass. The young witch thought _Reparo_ with fervor as she whipped out and waved her wand, sending the pieces of the bottle back together, before it floated back to the table with another motion.

Anton shouted, only the smallest _soupçon_ of anger in his voice, "Rodolphus!"

"He's away at work, you ought to know that," responded Riddle (if it was Riddle), his wonderful voice slightly annoyed. "I'll go see who this is." He Apparated behind Hermione with a loud pop and put his cold hand on her shoulder.

"Who are you?"

She turned around and found herself looking into black eyes and an incredibly handsome face, thin, with a straight nose and perfectly carved mouth, a face set off by the longish black hair that framed his face in straight locks. _This is Tom Riddle?_

"I'm sorry, I- I mis-apparated, I meant to be outside your door, I'll be going then," she stuttered fast, looking into those eyes and finding it very difficult to lie. Her mind concentrated solely on that thought, on that false mistake.

His eyes narrowed in suspicion as he took his hand off her shoulder, and for a second she dreaded that he knew she lied. "I didn't hear you Apparate," he stated, his voice entirely devoid of emotion.

"It- It was drowned out in the crash of the bottle. I repaired it." She thought of the bottle crashing and being repaired, saw it furiously in her mind.

"Why did you want to see me?"

"My cousin, Hepzibah Smith, she told me about you, the young cultured wizard who admired her collection, who was doing research into new potions and spells, who worked at Borkin and Burges. I mean..."

"I know what you mean."

Hermione, flustered, continued under the cover story she had come up with, certain now he knew she lied, concentrating as best she could on the story, trying to empty her mind of emotion. Had it not been too risky, she would have thanked Harry for the Occlumency lessons he had given her.

"So, since I'm a potion maker, I thought I would offer to work for you, if you're still doing research, because I am fascinated by researching new potions, it's a hobby of mine, I'm currently working on a potion to let the maker enter the dreams of the drinker, but she said you were such a bright, nice young man, and I would do well to speak with you about it." All this was said really fast, as Hermione wove the truth of her research into her lie in order to make it more believable.

"What an extraordinary coincidence!" he exclaimed, every inch the gentlemen. "My partner and I were currently despairing over our lack of potion-making capacity. Let me introduce you to him. Anton!"

Anton entered, and Hermione shivered. She remembered that calm, impassive face twisted in anger, and the agonizing pain of that line of purple flame. _I'm being introduced to a man who almost killed me – will almost kill me..._ She quickly took her thoughts away from him.

"I never saw you at Hogwarts, Miss..."

"Jeanne Grangère, à votre service. I'm from Beauxbatons. My English relatives call me Jane Granger." Thankfully for the "French" witch, her accent was nigh flawless, as she had studied the language in her free time. "Of course, you work at Borgin and Burkes, don't you, so I suppose you might be interested in a magic less... mainstream than that taught at those schools," she said conversationally, her voice trailing off.

Tom Riddle smiled, not the smile Harry had described as bestial, but a kind sort of smile which did not reach his eyes. "You have nerve, Jeanne," he said, speaking her middle name (not that he knew that) as a Frenchman would, "we might get along. But you lied to me. Your cousin is not Hepzibah Smith."

Hermione smiled. "No, you're right, she is not. But I don't know very much about you either. I'll work with you, but I don't think I have to tell you everything about me. Not yet." Now she felt really scared. _This is Voldermort! What am I doing, what am I doing? _

Anton looked at her suspiciously, and while Tom's nonchalant attitude did not falter, she was certain both were examining her. It was Tom who spoke.

"A researcher would be useful, I'll admit. Of course you understand if we would like you not to ... wander while we get acquainted?"

Hermione smiled. House arrest would have been inconvenient had her spying (for this _was_ Tom Riddle, and that meant she was here to do what had been her project all along – discover the location of the Horcruxes) had she been intending to pass it on to people in this time, which she wasn't.

"I'm staying at the Leaky Cauldron," she informed him, one eyebrow raised. "Would that not defeat the purpose?"

Anton's lip twitched with disgust, the first emotion she had seen on his face, and he stormed out of the hall.

"This is a big apartment," Tom Riddle responded with a shrug. "Rodolphus is a man of means. There is a parlor which we haven't used in three years. You can make it into a bedroom."

She nodded and thanked him, following him to where she guessed the parlor to be – a small room off the main living room, with magnificent parquet and plaster molding. She had passed the first test.

**A/N:**Thank you to both my reviewers, and as you requested, I updated soon.

I would like a beta, if anyone can do it.

Also, there are four people with this story on Story Alert! (does a little dance)

So, thanks everyone who read the first chapter of this story.

I assumed Tom Riddle was not as good a Legilimens as Voldemort later became, which explains here getting away with the lie.

Next chapter: TR and Bellatrix POVs.


	3. Demented Research

**Author's Note:**

Ok, I'm sorry if my Bellatrix seems a little OOC, the thing is I think when she was just out of Hogwarts she was very different than after the torture of the Longbottoms and 14 years in Azkaban. By the way, there might be some Bellatrix/Hermione, but I doubt it. Still, we'll see how the story goes.

And I'm not great at writing romance, so it will take a little while before the HG/TR materializes. Some plot in this chapter! Just a bit of it, but it's something.

Thank you to everyone who read this story.

I NEED A BETA! PLEASE?

3

Demented Research

Notes

I have made no progress in over a month. The Project looks to be very difficult indeed. I have received no help from Tom Riddle, who I still cannot understand. I hope to approach him today to get help. Still, it might be better if I let it go on its own...

The first key is already made, that I know. The second is on its way, but not yet made. I do not have to worry about that one – it will be seen to by someone else.

Hermione looked at her notes, pleased. It did her good to write this down, and it might be useful later on, but anyone one who looked would assume they were a potion-maker's notes, and that the Project referred, perhaps, to the Promens Brew they were researching. No one would, or could, understand that it was in fact the spying mission she had assigned herself – or that "key" referred to a Horcrux, and the second one to the large golden ring Tom Riddle wore.

She disguised the book as a pillow on her bed (well, Transfigured couch) and rose for the day's work.

O-o-o-O-o-o-O

Tom Riddle worked on his desk, blackening page after page of parchment with endless notes. The spell he had made, the Dementing Charm, worked very well. He had tested it on himself, and though he had not found it as dreadful as others supposedly did, he had experienced the chill, and the reliving of some annoying memories. Still, he knew that to others, the true weight of a Dementor attack was much more than it was to him.

The obsidian dagger, filled with powerful magic and apparently belonging to Dracula, which he had obtained for Mr. Borgin, had fascinated him. _Vampires._ They were immortal, in their own way. Perhaps that, combined with the power of Horcruxes, might be enough to help him. He stood up, brushing his hair out of his eyes, and moved towards the bookcase. He ran his long-fingered hand on his books, breathing in the scent of leather and parchment, that dusty scent he loved so well.

Thinking of books reminded him of his new partner, who seemed to read too much for her own good. She had shown great zeal in potion-making, but he knew she concealed something. Bellatrix had been banished from the laboratory, but he was still welcome. He pushed the door open and she stared up at him from her own notes.

"I think I have it Tom, look. This list of ingredients, these procedures... But it would have to be made at the summer solstice if I'm right. Still that's in only two weeks, so we should work to get the ingredients. There is one in particular that would be difficult to find – phoenix tears. I don't think they sell that in your average potion store, and even if they did the prices would be exorbitant. I tried it without the sunlight and the tears, and it seems to work to a very small effect. With those two ingredients, it should be perfect." She spoke as fast as she had a month ago, when she had arrived, but everything else about her had changed. She was more confident, happier... She had even cut her long, bushy hair, which kept getting in the way of her work, when she had been experimenting.

Tom smiled. "I think we could find phoenix tears. I know someone who deals in hard to find potion ingredients. We can go see her soon, how about that? Now, Hermione, I think we should talk." His voice, which had been cheery and kind at first had become more... businesslike.

"Yes, Tom, we should talk. I saw you were looking up Horcruxes. Is that true?" He felt the fear emanating from her as she asked that question. She feared someone who would do such a thing. Enjoying the feeling, he smiled.

"Yes, I have been looking them up. As you said yourself, we deal with more peripheral branches of magic here, do we not?"

She looked away from him, away from his smile, which he knew to be unnerving, back to her notes, looking at the list of ingredients.

"Why are we making a potion to protect from Dementors?" she asked, and he saw that this was not, really, what she wanted to know.

"Because it does not already exist. Because it should. Because if the Ministry finds out what we are doing, we could be sent in Azkaban, and it's better to be prepared."

She laughed at that. "Even with all the work I've put into this, this won't be permanent. A couple of days at the most."

Tom Riddle looked at her, knowing she knew the real reason. "Adieu, Mademoiselle, je dois vous quitter. Le devoir m'éloigne de votre agréable compagnie."

He stepped out of the room and strode towards the door, his mind still twisting over the mystery that was Hermione Granger. She was a good worker, and he had not lied. He found her company very agreeable. But he longed to know everything about her, the way he did with Rodolphus, and Anton.

He twirled gracefully and disappeared, feeling everything press around him for the shortest time, arriving with a swirling cloak at the shop. "Mr. Borgin," he said with a bow, "You sent for me?" The small, white faced owl that had delivered the message was now on the desk, staring at the assistant with mahogany eyes.

"Yes, Tom, I did. You will be glad to pay a visit to Hepzibah, I trust?" Seeing Tom's smile, he continued. "It has come to my attention that she possesses – I don't know how she managed it – a circlet from the faerie kingdom." A glint of red came over Tom's eyes. "I am willing to offer up to a thousand and a half galleons for this item, understand?"

Tom nodded and Disapparated, conjuring a composition of white-and-pink tulips for his client. He knocked on the Victorian glass door, and was welcomed by the tiny Hokey, at whom he nodded before following her. Mrs. Smith beamed at him, her bright orange hair escaping from the gaudy net of silver and pearls that matched her robes. She held out her hand and he kissed it gracefully.

"Mrs. Smith, it is always a pleasure to see you. I trust you are well?"

She nodded, then clapped in delight as he produced the flowers from behind his back.

"Oh Tom, you are too kind. Would you care to sit down?"

With a nod, he sat down on her frilly pink couch, a look of disgust passing through his eyes for a split second.

"Mrs. Hepzibah, my employer sends me to inquire after some rumors, which he, despite what I have told him, thinks exaggerate the worth of your collection."

Giggling, the ugly, fat witch hid her face behind her fan. "I am sure he is right, if he chooses to disbelieve the rumor. What is it, exactly? That I own Merlin's hat? Or perhaps Ravenclaw's wand?"

"No, I do not think he would put those past you, milady. He believes you own a circlet made in the fabled faerie kingdom, upon which no mortal has set foot for 3000 years."

Hepzibah looked away for a while, before turning her attention back on him. He could hear her thoughts, could hear in his head that she was wondering how Mr. Borgin had known. What she said was,

"You mustn't believe rumors. Mr. Borgin was right, I own no such item. How goes your research, my dear? You mentioned something about researching something to protect from dementors, something other than the Patronus."

Tom let her get away with her attempt at a diversion, talked about the potion, about Hermione, about the summer solstice coming up. He stayed an hour, before asking her to see the circlet.

"Mrs. Smith, this isn't about my employer wanting to buy it. This is about me. I want to see it, I want to see something made in the kingdom of faerie." His eyes and voice were pleading, he knew she would let him see now. She heard it in her head as clearly as he would if she was saying it out loud. _Poor boy. He really does mean it. He wants to see it. He's an intellectual, he'll understand._ And even to herself she didn't admit, didn't put in words, the feeling of pride, but it was there. She wanted to show off her circlet.

The battle was won.

"Hokey!" she called. "The circlet."

The diminutive house-elf maneuvered through the crowded pink room and ruffled poufs. She came back, carrying, not a box, but a red velvet cushion on which shone an object. _The circlet..._

Tom devoured it with his eyes, admiring the clean elegance of the gold and silver bands, twisting and turning around each other in ornate arabesques, holding between prongs of precious metal a small stone, merely enough to catch the eye, not sufficient to detract from the beauty of the art. A ruby here, and emerald there.

He looked at Hepzibah, resisting the greed within him. "How did you get that?"

Notes: (1)Goodbye, Miss, I must leave you. Duty calls me from your enjoyable company.

**A/N:** First, I hope you all enjoyed the chapter. Review responses.

Silver Tears 11: Well, kind of. She likes Hermione the way you'd like a kitten.

LaNi-GoldFish: They're not going to Hogwarts. Bellatrix and Tom are done with it, and it would look really weird to them if Hermione went there.

Again, I really appreciate constructive criticism, and I won't keep respond to reviews like "please update soon", though they really do help me to stick to a story. Sorry if I sound bitchy, but I try to do better than that myself.


	4. Dream Potion

**Disclaimer: **forgot to do this before. I do not own anything you recognize, and probably I copied quite a lot that you don't. I am writing this story for fun: mine and yours, and I think you can tell I'm not making money.

**Author's Note:**

This is where I do deviate from cannon quite a bit. I have the ending written (yes!) Sorry about the long update time, but school is taking up a lot of my time. I'm doing the Bellatrix POV again, because I liked it. I also want to say that I have another idea cooking up, so another fic might be coming.

**A Dream Potion**

"She wouldn't say where she got it though," finished Tom as he explained his venture to the assembled group. Hermione's eyes gleamed as she pictured the relic, but Bellatrix was not nearly as interested.

"Tom," she sighed, "Why do we need to know this? Why does it matter in the slightest?"

Hermione turned and exclaimed, excitedly, "Why does it matter? Because it's bound to have very powerful magic and also because it might lead us to the kingdom of faerie itself!"

Tom gave Hermione one of his rare, real smiles. "Exactly. Bellatrix, what do you know about that land?"

Bellatrix gave her friend a disgusted look and answered in a bored voice. "It is both a parallel dimension and an island. Long ago, before civilizations like Greece and Rome intervened, humans and faerie often interacted. Since then, the realm has been locked away." She finished, looking at Tom expectantly, waiting for some sort of an answer.

Hermione rolled her eyes at Bellatrix and answered, speaking very fast, "You forgot the most important bits. Faerie magic is incredibly powerful, and it manifests itself somewhat like accidental magic caused by lack of control among younger wizards. However faeries have much more power over their own magic. It is presumed that wizards are merely the result of crossbreeding between faeries and humans. Faerie origins are also presumed for almost every bit of magic on Earth – from Excalibur in the old tales to dragons and werewolves. The ability to enter the locked away faerie realm is fantastic, impossible, wonderful!"

The gleam in her eyes was unmistakable. Hermione was excited.

Tom abruptly changed the subject. "I'll be leaving for a while, to see Rodolphus," his matter of fact tone left the two women and the silent Unspeakable with no way to protest. Bellatrix sighed and seemed rather annoyed that he would rather spend time with her rival than with her, but Hermione's face betrayed the slightest bit of happiness. Inwardly, she was jubilant, knowing this was her big chance to do something that would allow her, for a few days, to understand Tom Riddle more.

O-o-o-O-o-o-O

"Gipseng root, mooncalf dung. Stir gently counterclockwise once, then clockwise once, then increase the counterclockwise as per the Fibonacci sequence until thirteen. 1 ... switch ... 1 ... switch ... 1 ... 2 ... switch ... 1 ... 2 ... 3 ... switch ... 1 ... 2 ... 3 ... 4 ... 5 ... switch ... 1 ... 2 ... 3 ... 4 ... 5 ... 6 ... 7 ... 8 ... switch ... 1 ... 2 ... 3 ... 4 ... 5 ... 6 ... 7 ... 8 ... 9 ... 10 ... 11 ... 12 ... 13 ... switch." Hermione muttered, hunched over the finicky potion which had, each time she switched, become more and more a pearly, translucent white, the original indigo shade fading away. A bowl of honey and almond was being stirred by an animated spoon and the next ingredients, bee wings and a lump of star iron, hovered in the air near her hand.

"Now it needs five minutes to rest," she mouthed silently, knowing there was no rest for her. With her damp wand, she ordered the spoon to stop and cast Lumos on the iron, hoping she had gotten it right – this was the bit of the potion she had been least sure about – if she had gotten it wrong after all... And there wasn't much time, this was it, Tom might not leave again, or she might have to go with him, and he couldn't know. She checked her thoughts, and lowered the flames below her cauldron, before taking the glowing lump of metal and putting it into the liquid, where it sank quickly, hitting the bottom with a large CLANK. The light suffused every bit of the translucent, pearly potion. Sprinkling the bee's wings over the surface, watching as the flimsy things floated for a while before sinking and disappearing. She stirred again, this time going to 21, the next number in the Fibonacci sequence, then dipped into the honey paste a branch of holy. She dipped it into the mixture, holding it there for 34 heartbeats, and watched as the pearliness came out of the white and the potion gained a golden tinge, still glowing, now perfectly transparent.

Hermione took out the branch, levitated the iron, which had lost its light, out of the cauldron, turned off the flames, and breathed a sigh of relief. _Done._ She looked at the vials of very similar potion, but slightly pink instead, and glow-less. That was an earlier experimental batch, with rose petals instead of bee wings, no iron, and no honey. Soon they would be joined with new vials – seven of them, that was how many of the batch was useful. _Tom, here I come._ The fact that she was already thinking of him as Tom dimly registered, but she didn't think of it as important.

O-o-o-O-o-o-O

Bellatrix looked at Tom curiously, and asked, not expecting an answer. "So what was this business with Rodolphus?" He looked at her with eyes narrowed and answered curtly,

"Research."

Knowing better than to press further, she proceeded to explain what had been happening in his absence. "Hermione has also been doing research, she won't tell me what it is, she seemed obsessed. Upset, too, I don't think it's working. I took a little trip to my aunt's, just one day, of course. She told me I should think of getting married, she's been telling me that for months. I saw my little half-sister there, Narcissa, she's growing to be an adorable baby, with beautiful pale gold hair.

There are a lot of wizards from Germany fleeing, I don't know what's happening, exactly, some are allowed to stay... Probably somebody high up is feeding the Muggle government some information and some wizards agree to serve him. This Hitler apparently has some of your ideas, purity of race... Only for him it's purity of some different sort of Muggle race from others, completely ridiculous, all Muggles are trash as far as I'm concerned."

Hermione stepped out of the kitchen, looking tired, and nodded to Tom. "What have you been researching?" he demanded.

"Come here, have a glass of pumpkin juice, and we'll talk about it," Hermione responded wearily. She had 2 glasses on the table, and one of them, which she hid from Tom, had some sort of liquid in it. She filled both of them with pumpkin juice and handed Tom the one with the liquid. Bellatrix scowled. She didn't know if she could trust Hermione that far, but the girl didn't seem to want to poison him. The woman who would become Voldermort's most fanatical follower resolved to force it out of her friend tonight.

O-o-o-O-o-o-O

Bellatrix watched, amused, as Hermione drank a vial full of golden liquid, a liquid which resembled very closely the one which had been within the glass of pumpkin juice.

"What are you doing, Hermione?" she demanded, her voice cold. "What did you do to Voldemort?"

The French witch sighed and put down the empty vial. She seemed to be looking for a way around the truth. "What I've been working on is dreams. Partially a potion to induce terrible nightmares, but mostly I've been working with the project I've worked on before. How to enter another's dream. This potion is the same that I gave to Tom, but his had a thought of mine in it. A thought of me. That means that our Nox, the part of our minds that dream, will be open, and they will naturally drift towards each other and merge. The fact that the thought of me was in his potion means that that thought will enter his dream and I will follow, meaning it will be his Nox which dominates." Bellatrix noted with interest that she refused to grant him the title she herself had used.

"And why would you want to enter his dreams?"

"To understand him. To understand our leader. To help him if he needs it, because he would refuse my help awake. Maybe one day we will all dream together every night, alternating with a random dominant Nox, to become closer together and to help communicate in a way. But first I want to understand him."

_She knows, _thought Bellatrix. _She knows we do more than research, that we have a mission. She knows that one day we will need her potion. _

"If that is truly what you are doing, then next time you do this, let me enter the dream as well."

Hermione nodded, and the English witch thought her French friend was not only acquiescing because of the implied threat, or to prove her point, but because she wanted to do so. _No, what am I thinking. Hermione's a researcher, she's fascinated with Tom, but scared of him. That's it._

O-o-o-O-o-o-O

_Hermione ran, filled with purpose, through a forest ravaged by fire. She ran past skeletal black trees which crumbled into ash if she touched them, her feet rousing up more ash with each step._

_The forest thinned, and here and there she glimpsed ravens feeding or flying, or perhaps some patch of crimson. She resolutely ignored these morbid happenings and kept running, not knowing where, knowing only that it was important. Then there was no more forest, just a gray, corpse-strewn plain where ravens gorged. Somewhere deep inside of Hermione, a lucid voice spoke up. _What a nightmare. Poor, poor Tom. _But the rest of her kept going, filled with purpose._

_She came to a solitary charred tree, below which lay yet another corpse. Only it wasn't a corpse, not yet. One eye looked at her pleadingly. The other was hidden by a raven which seemed to be pecking it._

_Without consciously deciding to do so, she raised her arms, and the ravens flew there, where they perched on them, her shoulders, and her heads, their claws digging slightly into her flesh. When they left the 'almost corpse,' she recognized Tom Riddle, but missing one eye, and the other looking thoroughly terrified._

_The purpose left her, leaving only a lingering knowledge of her power to judge him, replaced by her still lucid mind and a grandeur, a confidence, that had never belonged to her. _

"_You killed your father," she said, looking down at him._

"_Yes, I did. He killed my mother, and almost killed me."_

"_You killed him. Because he abandoned you, or because he was a Muggle who dared to be your father?" she asked, before adding, "Do not lie, the ravens will know" as a last spurt of the purpose that had brought her here._

"_Both," he answered after a while._

"_You let your uncle take the blame," she said, armed with, not the knowledge of the dream, but her own knowledge, the memories of Harry's words._

"_It was that or die, go in Azkaban."_

"_He did go there, where he will die."_

"_He was a crazy murderer." Tom tried to defend himself, but whether it was the dream or something else, his lack of confidence betrayed by his face and his voice._

"_So are you," she said simply, believing every word._

"_He was a disgrace to Salazar's line."_

"_He was pure blood. You are a half-blood," she retorted, stumbling slightly over the words, but forcing herself to say them. She had to understand him and could not protect herself from his pureblood mania. "Who is the disgrace? Salazar hated those with Muggle blood."_

"_I am the Heir of Slitherin! My mother's sin is forgiven!" He was almost hysterical now, staring not at her eyes but at the birds' sharp beaks. For a second, she felt sorry for him._

"_Have you killed before?"_

"_A girl, Myrtle. A Muggle-born. I used her death for my first Horcrux. I was sixteen." His words were filled with an odd mixture of shame and pride._

_Hermione lowered her arms slowly, pronouncing his sentence as the crows descended. "Tom Riddle is dead, and death people are food for the ravens."_

O-o-o-O-o-o-O

She lay in bed, wide awake, staring at the ceiling. The potion had not worked as anticipated, she had become part of his dream and lost part of herself. Maybe it was better that way. She wondered over Tom's nightmare, wondering whether he did think of himself as dead, or whether it was simply his own fear of death. Whether he had any morals, or he was just trying to play to her own. Whether he was truly incapable of understanding a Muggle-born witch.

O-o-o-O-o-o-O

**Author's Note:**

Sorry about the long update period. I unfortunately was kept off my computer by homework and two sisters, and I don't know which is the more unbearable.


	5. Number 17, Cherry Tree Lane

**Disclaimer:** NOT MINE! I'm not making money, I'm having fun. And hopefully so are you.

**Author's Note:** I'm sorry about this, the last chapter was supposed to be much longer, but I was having trouble writing it in time, so I split it into two chapters. I need a better title for the book, and for the last chappy, so send me any suggestions. But this chapter is longer than the others anyway! Yay!

Many thanks to Lunalelle and Sant for inspiring me to write fanfiction, as well as Red Hen for helping me with a concept (which I tweaked to fit the needs of this story) of magical history in general and the difference between Dark and Light magic specifically.

**Number 17, Cherry Tree Lane**

_A large circle of cloaked shadows. In the center stood Tom, anxious, looking at the black silhouettes, hidden by the fires behind them more than by the dark night, and feeling the wild beat of drums beat through his body. They jumped, twisted, and twirled, dancing to the drums, dancing in front of the fire. Two of them, he noticed, had robes that seemed different in design somehow. Or perhaps in color, it was difficult to tell. Why was his vision blurred? He was used to looking into fire._

_The distinctive smell of burning wood reached his nostrils, soothing him as it always did, and leaving him vaguely wondering why the flames were not magical in nature. Above him, a few stars twinkled faintly._

_The different two stepped from the circle, and as they moved closer to him and away from the flames that so damaged his vision, he noted that the difference was, indeed, in color – their cloaks were white, and those of the others seemed to be black. One of them moved behind him, the other in front, and he managed to realize, the dim light notwithstanding, that either they were wearing masks, or their faces were painted. He felt a soft cloth put against his eyes, and the fire vanished. The person behind him pulled, squeezing his eyeballs slightly, but he did not protest, knowing somehow that he was not allowed to speak if he wanted the ceremony to take its course. And he found that he did, very much so. As she tied the blindfold on, she caught some of his hair into it, pulling it and forcing Tom to wince with the pain. Physical pain. He had had enough of that, God knew, why was it affecting him? Everything felt as though he was young, new-born, so sharp and clear and _new

_He felt something touch his mouth and knew that he had to open it, which he did, feeling smooth skin against his lips, then tasting an incredibly sweet, warm _something_ in his mouth. It had all the delicious smoothness of chocolate and the sharpness of mint, and it melted wonderfully within his mouth, filling him with soft warmth, the taste lingering within his mouth long after he had swallowed whatever it was._

_It felt wonderfully good, like the exhilaration of cold wind on his face and the comforting, dry heat of the sun's rays on his back. Like the glee of having finally succeeded at something he had tried to do for a long time. It felt like every wonderful feeling at once. _

_A voice snapped him out of his pleasurable trance. Hermione's voice. Dimly registering it as odd, he listened to her question as though his life depended on it._

"_Do you like it?"_

_He could not begin to explain how much every bit of him wanted to say yes, how perfect the feeling was, better than anything else he had ever felt in his entire life, better than the wonderful joy of seeing people die at his hands. All he could do was nod enthusiastically._

"_What do you see?" she asked, her voice expressionless. No, it wasn't Hermione, but a different voice, another woman's, low and full of emotion. Bellatrix._

_What was he supposed to see? He was blindfolded. He opened his eyes below the soft cloth, but still he was blind. "Darkness," he responded hesitantly, wanting to say he saw something but knowing he could not lie._

_The blindfold was torn from his eyes, and they watered as the light of the fire assaulted him, letting him see little better than when the cloth had stood between him and the world. He felt himself being pushed and he stumbled towards the fire, feeling dreadfully cold now that the wondrous feeling had gone. _

"_Go," he heard from behind him, both women speaking, their voices merging in perfect harmony – the only good thing in the world which was now harsh and cold. "You will never be one of us. You lack the magic within you." The dance had not stopped, but where it was beautiful, in a savage way, before, now it seemed manic, disgusting, wild. _

_He managed to make it through the line, now seeing better, though the sharp clarity of before was lost, but not without being hit several time by the hands and feet of these people. These animals. He looked back, but the blue and green afterimages of the dancing flames hid Hermione and Bellatrix from view. It was probably just as well._

He was shivering.

Despite the two feather comforters under which he had buried himself.

He was shivering.

Even though it was a June 15th and not unseasonably cold, the weather in fact being quite agreeable and sunny.

He was shivering.

He stepped out from below his covers, feeling hardly more cold, and hurried to the kitchens, waving his wand in order to set water to boiling, readying tea. He stared out the window at the darkened street as he waited. When it was ready, he poured himself a cup too quickly, letting some of the water spill onto his hand, the heat of it burning him. He downed the steaming liquid very quickly, feeling it warm him up from inside. Feeling better, he walked to his desk in study and opened his journal. He didn't really like the name journal. This was more of an exercise in self-analysis. But then, journal fit what he was doing much more than "diary".

A side effect of Occlumency is the ability to remember in perfect detail the most far-away memories, and the most obscure dreams. So as Tom wrote it all down, he did not miss a single detail, and his conscious, awake mind was much more successful at noticing the oddities.

"_The second time Mlle. Grangère shows up in my dreams. Both in a judging position as well. With Bellatrix this time. I must be anxious for their approval. Strange – I feel no such thing." _Still at a loss, he put down his quill an decided to wake Hermione. They had to get the phoenix tears, after all.

O-o-o-O-o-o-O

Hermione walked behind him, wondering how he felt about his dreams, remembering them. He was tortured. The dreams were his own, she had not altered them. It was his own Nox that made him dream of being eaten by crows and judged. His own Nox that made him dream of being drugged and found to be lacking in magic, to be incapable of belonging. The thought brought a smile to her lips. _So Tom wants to be in the circle,_ she mused, before remembering things Harry had told her. The Death Eaters gathered in a circle around Voldemort when they met, wearing masks and large, black cloaks. She shivered, though the day was warm – even too much so.

As she walked through Diagon Alley, she found it much quieter than when she had been alive, real. There seemed to be less shops, and several were boarded up.

"Are we going to Knockturn Alley?" she asked, almost sure they were. _Hard to get potion ingredients_ screamed 'Illegal' to her, and she knew where illegal things usually came from.

Tom surprised her by answering "No." She had become accustomed to his ways of hiding his feelings and assumed that the monosyllabic nature of his answer and the silence they had been walking in meant he was in a bad mood. _Probably the dreams,_ she thought.

They stopped at a small shop. "Being foreign, you would not know, but there are five alleyways here, not two. I'll take you to what is probably the most dangerous one. Be wary." Was his warning to be careful an admission that he cared for her, or simply some automatic words he would say to someone who had been living with him for some time?

They arrived to one of the many bends in Diagon Alley, and she saw that there was a building which was not a shop, but looked to be a private house. Tom walked up to the front door and knocked the knocker twice, in quick succession. As he took his pale, thin hand away, she saw that it was shaped like a unicorn. _How very innocuous, _she thought, wondering what was so dangerous about this.

The door opened, and a young man with mousy hair, sitting on the moldy couch which seemed to be the only bit of furniture in the room, looked up from his newspaper and greeted Tom. "Ah, it's you. Know where to go, then, don't you?" Tom nodded, and went up the old stairs. The reached a dark room with a threadbare carpet as its sole decoration, lit by an old-fashioned gas lamp. The only point of interest in this room was the door that stood on the other side, its paint peeling. Clearly, this house had seen better days.

They went through the door and found themselves face to face with a street that looked positively upper-class. The brick buildings all looked identical, down to the plaster moldings and wrought-iron balconies, and the trees that stood on the side of the street looked to be cherry trees in blossom. _That's odd, it's not season for that,_ she thought and shrugged. Still following Tom, she walked down the street, trying very hard not to let down her guard. It looked so innocent – but Tom wouldn't have warned her for nothing.

She didn't notice anything wrong until she heard the two words that every wizard dreaded and loathed. "Avada Kedavra!" shouted a female voice somewhere on her right, and a jet of green light passed a hair's breadth away from the small of her back. She turned around, not to the voice as was her first impulse, but towards where the curse was headed, and saw an old man lying on the floor, his top hat rolling across the cobbled street.

"Don't make enemies of those who walk Cherry Tree Lane," whispered Tom from above her, and she started at the name. Cherry Tree Lane? Surely not! This dangerous street, named after a muggle book? The thought was enough to make her laugh. But she repressed the urge, an odd noise like a hiccup coming from her mouth instead.

They came to a house which was, naturally, an exact twin of all the others on the street, save for the brass numbers on its door, which were a 1 and a 7. Hermione stifled a giggle. _Number 17, Cherry Tree Lane? This is either a coincidence, or someone who knows a lot about Muggles._ Tom's pale fingers grasped the ornamental, fleur-de-lys knocker and he hit it hard, surprising Hermione who had been expecting a much more mild knock. After a while, footsteps were heard from within and a young witch opened the door. Whatever she had been expecting, this was not it: the woman's black curls tumbled down to her waist despite what seemed to be a sincere attempt to constrain them within a ponytail; her full, pink lips seemed to be capable of no expression other than a smile; her white, lacy dress in the falsely Creole fashion was constrained by a cerulean sash; and mismatched earrings, a little silver bell and a golden hoop, completed the impression of an overall eccentric person who would have been more at home on Travers' Cherry Tree Lane, with its gingerbread stars and talking sparrows, than on the real-life version where Hermione had witnessed a murder.

The apparition jumped at Tom and squeezed him affectionately, shouting about not having seen him for a long time. Tom muttered something along the lines of "I'm just a client..." and extricated himself with difficulty from the hug.

"Who's your pretty friend?" she asked, seeming only now to notice Hermione, who smiled and introduced herself as Hermione Grangère, Tom's research partner and a potion-maker.

"Melpomene," he said, his voice cold now, "I have come to ask you for some phoenix tears."

Hermione noted that he carefully closed the door behind him as he announced what he sought.

The witch smiled, leading them to a room, talking all the while, very fast. "Of course, phoenix tears are incredibly difficult to obtain, as not only do you need to find a phoenix, but you need to make it cry. I myself have only ever seen a real phoenix once, in China, but I'm not stupid Tom – as soon as I saw it I talked to it about art and how wonderful it was and it tolerated me for an entire day. Then I pretended to stumble and literally broke my leg. He cried liberally, but I caught all his tears in a vial. It's much easier to heal the wound another way. That's the vial you'll be getting, but it won't come cheap and I know you're not rich Tom, what do you expect to give me?" At this point they had arrived to a room covered in shelves containing all sorts of things – unicorn horns, small bouquets of flowers she recognized from her Dark Arts research, bottles of liquids of all sorts, gorgeous crimson and gold eggs... Melpomene, if that was her real name, reached for a tiny, dusty vial of red-tinted glass and held it in one hand, looking at Tom

"Same as always. A favor we agree on. Send me the owl – you know I keep my word."

Melpomene nodded and handed him the vial. "Mind you, if you don't, I have other people who owe me favors," she threatened with a smile, before hugging Tom again. "What do you need phoenix tears for, Tom? Or are they for you, Hermione?"

"We're working on an experimental potion – it'll need to be brewed on the solstice, but we're not sure if we're right. I'm positive we'll need the tears though.."

Hermione heard Tom say "good-bye" icily, and felt the awful pressure of Side-along Apparition on every inch of her body, before finding herself back at the study, gasping.

"What was that for?" she yelled. "I can Apparate on my own, thank you!"

His voice was calm, and he answered as he sat at his desk, looking at the Muggle street below. "You would have argued. Said you wanted to walk. And walking out of Melpomene's is stupid. Few people are willing to pay for her merchandise, but... well, you've seen the street."

Hermione accepted his logic and cursed her own foolishness at not catching it. "Well, then, may I have the vial? And I'll stop my current research to prepare for the potion and brew various others. I think a supply of, say, Veritaserum or of the Draught of Death would be handy to have around – and personally I wouldn't mind brewing them."

Tom smiled at her, recognizing Hermione, who had vanished temporarily as she screamed. _That _hadn't been like her. Or perhaps it had and he simply could not know. He pulled the little red bottle from his pocket and handed it to her.

O-o-o-O-o-o-O

_He led Hermione and Bellatrix down the cliff, instinctively finding the right handholds and footholds. He heard her whimper above him and smiled. They would pay for having humiliated him. They had no ropes nor any other tools to aid in the dangerous climb, but they had to follow him. _

_He reached the rough surface, and saw the entrance to a cave, only half-submerged because the tide was low. Holding on to the abrupt face of the cliff, looking for all the world like a spider, his miserable clothes drenched from the spray, he waited. When they were near enough, he lowered himself into the water, not flinching from the cold, feeling the waves batter him but also loving the smooth caress of the ocean. He swam into the cave and reached a point were moist rock was available to stand upon. Noticing that the other two were behind, he let a taunting "So, are you coming" echo eerily through the dim cave. _

_They soon arrived, swimming in surface, and he noticed that neither seemed to be an excellent, or even a good, swimmer. Bellatrix in particular seemed incapable of putting her head below the surface, though perhaps that was due to the frigid temperature of the water._

_The cave had only the slightest amount of light in it, and the cold was much greater within than without, so that the two girls shivered and huddled together. Tom, though, was neither cold nor wet, and his clothes had mysteriously dried. He led them deeper into the cave, knowing that it was safe for him – but not for them. Eventually the darkness became perfectly absolute, and noises louder. The slightest breath echoed menacingly, and even when staying on tiptoe the two girls' footsteps were as loud as elephants'. They heard their heartbeats pounding furiously. But it seemed that they were alone now. He could not be heard, and of course the darkness provided further concealment._

_They spotted something moving in the impenetrable shadows, and heard a heavy breath coming from behind them. As they whirled around in terror, they saw absolutely nothing. Then they heard something that sounded very much like the irritating sound of a bee's flight – only the location transformed its irritating nature into something incredibly frightening._

_It was all like before._

_But this time he heard it too, and saw the gleaming red eyes, the drooling jaw, that advanced upon his victims, and he knew that it was real, that he wasn't just sending terror into their minds. _

_The buzz became louder and louder, and suddenly everything was quiet again, save for the noise of two pounding hearts. Breathing in relief, they dismissed everything as imaginary terrors._

_But the red eyes came back, and the shadows were moving. They no longer felt each other's hands, or heard their own heartbeats, their own breath. The just saw the shadows moving and the red eyes glowing. And Tom wondered whether his heart had ever truly beaten, or if he was dead. Dead and in Hell._

He sat up in bed panting, hating himself for his weakness. Then suddenly it dawned on him. _"I've been doing research into the Nox,"_ she had said hen he had come back, "_Trying to twist it to form nightmares, but I failed._" What if she hadn't failed? Or maybe she hadn't been doing that sort of research at all. _"I'm currently working on a potion to let the maker enter the dreams of the drinker."_ Whatever she _had_ been doing, she had something to do with this.

O-o-o-O-o-o-O

**Author's Note:** If you like what I've done with dreams in the past two chapters, read my fic Dreams and Memories, which so far consists of a short about Harry and Ginny's dreams.

Now, I must thank Chinese Miko for the first real review I have received. Not only did she attempt constructive criticism, but she succeeded. Dear Miko, you are very right in that I portrayed Hermione OOC in the first chapter. That is being seen to.

Again, naming suggestions would be welcome.

If you didn't catch the Mary Poppins reference, I'm sad for you. Go read it right away, it's very good. I don't own that as well, but I do own _my_ Cherry Tree Lane, and Melpomene (5 points to anyone who can recognize her name without looking it up on the web).

By the way, Real Word Count (without ANs) is 9328


	6. The Chamber of Secrets

**Author's Note:** My first beta'ed chapter! Many thanks to Chinese Miko. All the Psyche stuff is mine, and food for Hermione/Tom stuff later.

**

* * *

**

**The Chamber of Secrets**

He entered the laboratory, looking for anything which didn't fit with the original research – the Promens Brew, they called it. Soon he spotted something glowing gold near him. A series of vials, eight empty and four full. He approached them carefully and looked at the labels. He smiled at the name. "Nix". Snow. It was clearly a play on "Nox", the part of the mind responsible for dreams. Now to find what she had written in her notes.

Lazily, he summoned the worn notebook on the shelf into his hand and looked at it. At least she was clever enough not to put it directly after the Brew information. Unless... _Specialis Revelio!_ he ordered silently, but the pages remained blank. Well, there were other possibilities. He flipped through the rest of the pages and came to upside down writing on the last few. Turning the book around, he smiled to himself. He, too, had turned his notebooks for such double use, when his instructors had been boring and he wanted to keep his own notes separate... He blinked and looked back at the notes, reading the shorthand easily.

_"The Nox is the most unstable part of the human mind, as it is that which dominates when the Dux is asleep. It constantly leaps around, from association to association, and that way can sometimes come to more insight than the Dux, the waking mind, both having access to the same memories. Study of dreams thus often reveals a lot about the state of the overall Psyche. Most of the time, it is complete nonsense, however, as random memories are picked and looked at. The Muggle psychologist Freud believed dreams to reflect the heart's inner-most desires. To the witch or wizard, that is utter rubbish. The Nox also has a tendency not to remain within the boundaries of the Psyche, and it is possible without any spell for it to access others' memories, especially if a link already exists."_

So far, this read like a textbook – but with new insights. He had never heard of this sort of escaping, of transcending the mind... Hermione was indeed very bright, almost as much so as he.

_"The potion, if the ingredients are correct, will accomplish several things. First: it will allow a small portion of the Dux to mix with the Nox, allowing for relevant dreams and a somewhat lucid feel to it. Second, it will eradicate the barriers of the Psyche, allowing the Nox to wander. It will be difficult, however, for it to wander into the Nox of someone who has not taken the potion – someone with a closed Psyche. Third, somebody consumes with the potion a thought of the other, which ensures that they will dream of the other. The two, open Psyches will find each other and the 'lucid' dreams will merge. Because one person will already be dreaming of the other, that person will slip into the role set up for him or her by the dream and enter that way."_

This was fascinating –brilliant!– to come up with such a mechanism, and to design a potion that made it possible... A note, less legible and in a different color ink, obviously made after the experiment, read: "Success. Note: I was incorporated into his dream too much and lost some of my lucid free will."

Tom closed the notebook, happy, and put it back on the shelf where it had been. He then went back to the potions and took three of the full vials down. He unstoppered them and thought of himself, concentrating on thoughts of his hair, face and eyes, of his split soul, of his being Head Boy and considered the smartest Hogwarts student in a century, of the clique that had hung around him, of the emblem of Slytherin, of him. His pale fingered hand drew the wand away, looking at the silver strands that clung to the tip, before putting one bit in each of the three vials. Then he took the last one and pocketed it, hoping Hermione wouldn't count the remaining vials.

O-o-o-O-o-o-O

_Cold permeated every inch of her, seemingly freezing her over, for she couldn't move. Her wet robe lay on her, chilling her even more, if that was even possible. He stood above her, tall and handsome. Tom. His figure seemed blurred somehow – or was that merely because of the tears in her eyes? She thought he smiled._

"_Thank you," he whispered, leaning down and touching her cheek with burning fingers. How odd! They were usually cold. "Thank you for your great sacrifice." _

_The somewhat tender moment was interrupted by Harry, bursting in. Only then did she realize that she was in a huge, wet chamber of stone, decorated in a reptilian motif. Near her where the enormous gray feet of what seemed to be a statue, so tall that she could not see its face._

_Harry tripped over a stone and his wand fell out of his hand to clatter noisily near her. She tried to take the wand and give it to him, but her muscles would not respond. Instead, a pale, long-fingered hand gracefully picked it off the floor, and Tom Riddle stood, holding it, looking at Harry with earnest eyes._

_Oddly enough, her friend seemed happy to see him, and exclaimed gleefully, "Tom!" When Tom did not return the wand, he seemed to be suspicious. "You don't get it! We're in the Chamber of Secrets! There's a basilisk!" An edge of panic rose into his voice, and the terror in his eyes did not seem suppressed by the older man's insurance that the dreaded monster would not come until it was cold._

_She watched as a confrontation played out, as Harry learned the truth, and saw her, as he learned that Tom had possessed her. Things got blurrier and blurrier, until she could only see two figures, and the gold-and-red bird that had joined them, and even its wonderful song, which reduced the cold, only came to her in bits and pieces. Then everything became fragmented. _

_Something huge and scaly coming from above her towards Harry, its emerald green color standing out despite the increasing grayness of everything, and the noise of hissing overcoming everything in her mind._

_A hand snatching a gleaming sword, its silver blade moving in great arcs and circles against the darkness._

_Redness mixing into the water, Harry's body lying down, his head falling on her stomach, his blood flowing out of his arm, over her, flowing everywhere with its dreadful warmth and its metallic stench, and Tom Riddle's voice gloating._

_The darkness becoming more and more complete, pressing against her eyes, the cold finally penetrating her heart and her mind until she couldn't even think, couldn't remember, could only hear his voice, higher and colder than before, thanking her._

O-o-o-O-o-o-O

The quartet rose from dinner. Most of the meal had passed by with little conversation other than the now inevitable discussion of events in Germany. As Bellatrix and Antonin left to their rooms, Tom let drop his trap.

"I think I'll go pay a visit to my old Potions professor. I'll apparate back tomorrow."

Hermione rolled her eyes, launching into her familiar "You can't apparate or disapparate on Hogwarts grounds!" before realizing the enormity of her mistake (on Dis-) and biting her lip till it turned quite white.

Tom smiled and finished her sentence for her. "Yes, I was surprised myself at the number of Hogwarts students who never read Hogwarts, A History." He looked at her pointedly. "Or the number of Beauxbatons students who apparently do."

She avoided his gaze, looking at the table, and answered that it was part of her general culture.

"So, tell me about Beauxbatons, there's a lot I don't know about it, which you must know. For instance, is it a state sponsored school?" She nodded, trying desperately to remember what little she knew about Beauxbatons. It apparently was more luxurious than Hogwarts, but that could be Fleur's exaggeration.

"Does it allow anyone to enter?" he asked, seemingly very interested (_he _would_ be, wouldn't he?_) and she nodded again, saying "Like Hogwarts."

Tom looked at her with a dangerous grin and grabbed her wrist, his cold fingers making her shiver. _That's not right, they were burning hot before_... She thought, before dismissing it as just a dream – he must not have taken the potion, and her Nox had returned with a vengeance. "Really? I was under the impression it was a private school for pureblood students. And oddly enough, Grangère isn't a clan.

"Why don't you tell me the truth?" His speech was laced with power, she could feel it, and she had to dig her nails into her palm to keep from obeying him.

"What truth?" she asked with a provocative grin.

He laughed, a high, mirthless laugh, sounding odd coming from his own handsome visage. "Let's begin with this one. How do you know about the Chamber?" His voice had lost all its charm but kept its power, it was a voice she could not disobey.

"It was opened. By you. The diary..." As soon as she mentioned the diary, her dream came back, and she understood – a bit late – that the only way he could know she knew was if he had been in her dreams.

"You took the Nix potion. You saw my dreams."

"As you saw mine, and doubtless tried to analyze my mind based on what you saw-" She interrupted him, seizing her chance for a lie, for anything.

"That's where I learned about the diary and how it has power. It's your Horcrux. You split your soul..."

He laughed again, admiring her boldness, but feeling her fear radiating in waves. "Don't lie to me, Hermione," he whispered, voice soft again, smooth, like milk and honey...

"How many times did you mutilate your soul?" she asked, sparring with him, trying to remain on the offensive because her defense was lacking. She avoided looking into his eyes, which were now flashing crimson, knowing that to do that would be to give up forever.

"Once." His voice was final, and he let go of her wrist. "Should we go over the protocols for making the potion?" Was that his way of declaring a truce?

O-o-o-O-o-o-O

Bellatrix was scratching her cat between the shoulderblades, in the golden sunlight that flowed through the window, painting the room in colors of flame, and making the animal's black fur glitter. She looked up as Hermione entered the room.

"How are you doing?" she asked conversationally, looking curiously at her friend, whose face was pale and wan.

"I'm fine, I just had a trying conversation with Tom." Hermione's tone was odd, as though she was trying very hard to sound inconsequential, untroubled – and failing miserably. Bellatrix shrugged and pointed at the bed.

"You need some rest," she ordered, her voice allowing no discussion.

Hermione nodded and slumped on her bed, where she hit something hard. Wincing, she looked and saw...

A book, worn and a bit tattered, the gilded lettering on its black leather cover peeling off. Psyche, by Nagy. Intrigued, she extended one hand to touch the book, forgetting all precautions, lost in the world of leather, ink, and parchment.

Emerald ink marred the perfect pattern of interlocked circles and figure eights that formed the inside cover. A handwriting, neat, ornate, and elegantly slanted, she had never seen before.

_"Hermione,_

_"I found this tome seven years ago, in the Hogwarts library. Well, that's not exactly true – it wasn't part of the actual library, but a small, old room on the side, filled with books a dozen times more precious than those belonging to the School. At any rate, this priceless tome offers a lot of insight into the soul, its workings, and so much more. I rather thought you'd like to see it._

_"Read it, and then we'll have much to discuss._

_"Tom Riddle"_

He must have put this on her pillow before dinner, which meant either that his suspicions had bee aroused then – unlikely, on the whole – or that he was sending her a message. Maybe he meant that they could still work together, and that they should build up more trust. Or perhaps the message – if there was one – was in the book itself.

She turned to the first chapter and began her perusal, reading quickly. Within five minutes she had summoned a notebook and started ferociously scratching it with her quill, spattering ink onto her robes and sheets. Idly, she thought she would like to see Tom's notes – for she very much doubted he would even _think_ about writing them directly into the book – not a book from 1674.

Three passages in particular stood out from the rest of the text.

_"The Psyche, often referred to as the soul, which has very different connotations, is so named after an old Greek tale: the story of Eros, the god of love, and a mortal, Psyche. In the tale, their love pulls them through many obstacles, and Psyche becomes a goddess, the goddess of the soul. They live in happiness, for when love and the soul are together, joy resides."_

_"Legilimency, literally the reading of minds, is in truth the reading of the memories and personality which reside in the Mens, from which the Nox and Dux draw their memories. At its most basic, it simply pulls out random memories, as though casting a net into an ocean. The advanced Legilimens can examining the specific memories that the Dux is drawing on, and can even have a sort of alarm ring when those memories conflict the words – in other words when the person is lying."_

_"The Dux and the personality it is always connected to take extensive damage whenever it performs an act of 'evil', such as theft, rape, or murder. It is as though a small sliver of it breaks off, connected only by a string to the main part. The first to get so disconnected is usually the seat of emotions. Certain incantations complete the cut, and allow that piece of the Dux and the Mens (referred to by the ignorant as the soul, as they refer to the Psyche as a whole), and store it into an object. Yet some connection remains, which forbids the remainder of the Psyche from effectively dying unless the fragment is returned to its body. This magic renders the wizard who performs it increasingly unable to feel."_

She read on until, with one chapter left to go, she felt her eyelids fall, leaden, and her world blur around the edges. She managed to finish her paragraph before her eyes closed of their own accord and she collapsed on the book, her short hair covering its crisp, worn parchments, the leather binding leaving its imprint on her cheek.

Bellatrix was long asleep, and the clock on the wall ticked, three black hands indicating in the position of eight o'clock – but then, the order of the numbers was upside down, save for the smaller numbers indicating minutes. It took a while to get used to it, but one who did understand it would have realized it was truly four.

* * *

**Reviews:**

**James-Padfoot:**I adore you! Ok, thanks for the confidence booster (read two of your stories, they're great).

About the timeline - I know it's not the official one, and although I wanted it this way I'll have to change it now someone realized... That's a lot of retro-fitting to do, I'll get working on that.

About them being OC: again, they're much younger, but you are right. I tried to make Hermione and Tom more cannon in this one, and I had an original plan for Bellatrix being very sadistic. But with the timeline stuff, I'll have to drop her out of the whole thing, I think- she's too young to have known Tom at Hogwarts. Means I'll have to come up with another third-party... I might make it Anton, make him more of a presence in this fic.

About the other death eaters: I contend that while he worked at B&B, only a few if any of them would be there with him.

**NOTE TO EVERYONE:** I will be editing the old chapters, and I'll tell you any changes, which might be pretty major now I got caught at messing up the timeline. So no new installments until I finish the editing.


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